


My First, My Only

by anotherdiana



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: M/M, Non Consensual Kissing, fanfic contest, kinda completely one-sided, phantastic homos, raouls still smitten with christine, suggestion towards future non consensual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:10:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdiana/pseuds/anotherdiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Phantastic Homos Fanfic Contest.<br/>This is set during that creepy bit in the book where Erik decides that it's a super good idea to sneak into Raoul's bedroom and watch him sleep. Yeah.<br/>Also, remember how Raoul gets all entranced by Erik's voice? Yeah, that too.<br/>Not gonna lie, Erik is a bad, bad man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My First, My Only

So, contest at [phantastichomos](http://phantastichomos.tumblr.com/). Awesome.

* * *

 

 

Raoul woke in the very early hours of the morning, with a feeling of unease settled uncomfortably on his chest. He felt his skin prickle, as if he were being watched, and thought of Christine, and her angel. He cursed mildly under his breath, and then, louder, said:

“Damn him. Damn the Opera Ghost!”

He felt better for having said it, but very quickly felt much worse, as the uneasiness of before rushed back with renewed vigour.

He looked around, nervously, and suddenly: two eyes, like blazing coals, appeared at the foot of his bed! They stared at him, unblinking.

Raoul hastily scrambled in his bedside drawer for his revolver, his hand meeting nothing but air. Had he left it in his study after he had cleaned it? He must have done, for it was vanished. Instead, he took up the matches to light his candle, not once looking away from those terrible eyes.

As soon as he struck the match, the eyes disappeared.

Feeling unsure of himself, Raoul stood up, taking the candle with him, and searched about the room, checking inside cupboards, and behind his screen. He even checked behind the curtains, and under his bed. There was no one.

Feeling slightly foolish, Raoul went back to bed. He tucked his bare legs under the covers, and pulled his long nightshirt tight around him. He chided himself for being so nervous. It had been the stars reflecting on his mirror, that is all. There was no one in the room. He blew out the candle.

The eyes were back!

Raoul sat bolt upright, reaching again for the matches. They were gone.

He pushed himself further into the centre of the bed, away from the edges, and sat against the headboard, knees drawn to his chest. He kept his eyes fixed on those burning embers in the darkness.

“Is that you, Erik? Angel of Music? Phantom, are you there?”

The eyes blinked, only to reappear closer.

“I am going mad. Erik, are you there!? Only… I would like to know about it, if you are.”

“I am here.”

A low, melodious voice swept through the darkness.

Raoul almost fainted with terror. A dizziness came over him, and if he had not been sitting in bed, he would have fallen.

“Erik?” He asked in a small voice.

“Yes, it is I. It is your Opera Ghost.”

Raoul gathered his courage, and raised his chin high, in an attempt to feel brave.

“You have come about Christine. You are her teacher.”

“It is true that I am her teacher,” the voice mused, “but I have not come because of her.”

“You don’t want me to marry her, and you hope to warn me off. Or you have come to kill me, so you may keep her to yourself. But you cannot prevent Christine from marrying. She will do as she chooses.”

“Christine may marry, one day. And I hope that the man she takes as her husband will not remove her from the stage, or he may find that a great misfortune comes to him. But, as long as she sings, I have no objection to Christine marrying.”

Raoul shook his head, fiercely.

“She said that you would not allow her to marry me.”

“Yes.” The voice took a harsher tone. “ _That_ union, I have forbidden.” The voice turned soft again. “You must not marry her. I cannot abide it.”

The eyes vanished again. Raoul sat, tense as a coiled spring, holding his breath, and waiting. In the dreadful silence of the night, he could hear his own heart beating. It seemed loud enough to wake the dead. Surely the Phantom must be able to hear it too.

After a few short moments, he felt the bed shift, as though someone had added their weight on to it.

Raoul whimpered.

He squeezed his eyes shut, childishly trying to wish the Ghost away. Through a great force of will, he contained his sobs, which lodged in his throat, hammering to escape.

“Vicomte.” The beautiful voice murmured.

Raoul whimpered again.

“ _Raoul_.”

He opened his eyes, full with tears, but could not bring himself to look towards the voice’s owner.

“You have heard me sing. I saw you, when you hid in Christine’s dressing room. You heard me sing. I sang for _you_ , Raoul, and you nearly swooned.”

Raoul took a shaky breath, holding off his tears a little longer.

“I admit it.” He said, quietly.

“And you liked hearing me sing?”

“You have… a beautiful voice. A great talent.” It cost Raoul a great deal to say, but he was still of the childish belief that a lie was a sin. He could do nothing except tell the truth.

“Would you let me sing for you again?” The Phantom did not wait for an answer, but started singing softly.

Raoul forgot his fear, forgot everything, when he heard that voice again.

He turned his head toward the Ghost, who must indeed be an angel, with a voice so alluring. He forgot that this was his enemy.

The song was a kind of lullaby, in a strange tongue that Raoul did not understand, and soon he was closing his eyes. A small and secret smile played on his lips.

The Phantom, or Angel, inched slowly closer, too gently to cause the Vicomte to worry. After several minutes, he was sat pressed close to the boy. And to Raoul, nothing seemed more natural than to lay his head down on Erik’s shoulder, and let him run loving fingers through his hair.

They sat in this embrace, Erik’s arms pulling the boy tight against him, gentle hands caressing his hair, for over an hour. The sun began to cast its golden hue across the room. Raoul entered a dream-like state of mind, letting the enchanting music wash through him, ensnaring him. He was caught, charmed.

Eventually, Erik’s song came to a close. Raoul stayed nestled against him, having no will of his own left to encourage him to move.

Erik began to murmur soft words of flattery into the boy’s ear.

“You are so very beautiful, Raoul. You charm everyone who meets you, and you have charmed me. Yes, you have me trapped. I long for you, to possess you. You see, now, why I cannot let Christine marry you.”

Raoul stirred, his mind trying to wake from its peaceful slumber.

“Christine? Does she belong to you?”

“In a way, yes. I own her voice. She sings only for me.” The hands kept stroking Raoul’s hair. “I like to have beautiful things. Christine’s art is a thing of beauty. I encourage her to grow.”

“Will you marry her?” Raoul’s voice was slow, heavy, as though he was being dragged down into sleep.

“No. Her voice is exquisite. But she does not interest me except in her art.”

“Then she may marry me?”

“ _No!!_ ” The voice lost its lyrical quality, and Raoul flinched, beginning to push himself away from the strong body holding him close.

Erik made comforting shushing noises, and hurriedly stroked Raoul’s hair until his eyes slid closed again, like an animal tamed into a pet.

“No,” Erik began again, softly, “you must not marry her. You must not marry any woman. I have a passion for beautiful things. It is why I am so fond of music, architecture, art of all kinds. You are the most beautiful creature on Earth, and I cannot give you up. You are my first love, my only. I must keep you for myself.”

“You have Christine.” Raoul mumbled, and yawned as he leaned his weight more fully on to the other man.

“I have Christine’s voice, and have taken her as my protégé. But I mean for _you_ to be my lover.”

At this, Raoul broke free of the trance he had fallen into. His eyes flew open, and he tried to throw himself away from the man. He could not. Erik had too tight a hold on him.

Raoul struggled against the arms that held him. This was the Opera Ghost! His enemy! How could he have forgotten, even for a moment, who this man was?

His heart began to beat wildly, terror running through his veins. He pressed his hands over his ears, as if he were afraid to be ensnared by that voice again, and he started to sob.

He was pitiful, and beautifully so. Even the coldest man would have released him, let him flee.

But Erik was not cold. He burned with a fire of passion, and did not relinquish his hold on the young Vicomte.

Raoul threw a strong punch at the Ghost, only to have his small wrists caught, as if he had no more strength than an infant. He cried, and begged to be freed, to no avail. He threw his entire weight backwards, attempting to break the Phantom’s grip. Eventually, like a bird in a cage, he fell still. His heart still beat frantically, but his body was calm. In his defeat, he became peaceful. Pliable.

He let himself slump, let the Phantom hold all of his weight, let himself be kept upright by nothing more than the Phantom’s arms.

At last, still and almost tranquil, with the early morning light illumining them both, Raoul was able to study the man in his bedroom.

He was tall, broad shouldered, and well built, but he was slender despite it, and seemed to be slightly too long in the limbs. His wrists were slim. His fingers were fearfully thin, and far too long. They would be elegant, if they were not so dangerous. His had a small waist that many young men would be envious of, but it did not make him any more appealing, it simply made him more intimidating, and therefore, more terrifying.

He wore a black suit, and the classic white shirt, waistcoat and bow-tie that was favoured by the more fashionable musicians in Paris’s Opera Houses. They looked to be very expensive, and were unmarked by wear, meaning they were either very new, or very well cared for.

He had black hair, as dark as ink, and it was thick, with the barest amount of curl, but it seemed to start too late on one side, as though his hairline had decided to recede on only one half of his face. It was difficult to see exactly where the hair stopped growing, as that same half of his face was covered by a black mask. It was made of some material that looked as though it would be soft, but unyielding to the touch. It blended perfectly with the darkness lingering at the corners of the room.

What could be seen of his face was not wholly unhandsome. He had pronounced features. His nose started slightly too high, and was straight and strong. His eyes were too deep set, swathed in shadows, but in the light they looked less like flames and more like molten gold. His mouth had a good shape, although his lips were thin. His eyebrow; the one that was visible; was thick and perfectly arched. His jaw was sublime. He had an overall look that was fitted to either foreign aristocracy, or Parisian peasantry. His fine clothes suggested the former.

Raoul stared at the Phantom, sniffling occasionally, his mouth turned down into a heartbreaking pout, tears still falling from his beautiful eyes. And the Phantom stared back, mouth slightly parted, seemingly mesmerized by the young man caught in his embrace.

The Phantom tangled the fingers of one elegant hand in the locks at the back of Raoul’s head, and leaned in to press his lips gently to the boy’s forehead.

He had begun to hum, the same hypnotic song as before, and Raoul found it harder and harder to remember why he had been resisting this. He was safe in his room, warm and comfortable, curled tightly against his love. His first love. But that wasn’t quite right…

His head was tilted upwards, and he felt firm lips pressed against his.

Christine!

He made a half-hearted attempt at pushing himself away.

But the singing had started again. That magnificent, blissful voice was calling him closer, until he could remember nothing except the warm, heavy feeling in his limbs. He was so content, here, so secure.

The lips found his again, and again, and again, until Raoul was gasping, mewling. He was so _loved_.

A strong embrace pulling him closer, further into his lover’s lap. A warm, solid arm encircling his waist, keeping him centred, a large hand running up his bare leg, lips on his, claiming, owning. Moans that sounded like music.

He was being led away, the music drawing him forward, he could barely feel his feet touch the floor, he felt like he was floating.

The icy air hit him suddenly, as though he had been plunged underwater. The cold morning was rushing in through the open balcony doors, soaking through his thin cotton nightshirt, swirling around his legs, threatening to drag him down. He was almost over the threshold, out into the open, led by this demon.

He threw himself backwards, into the false security of his bedroom, screaming for his brother to save him.

He felt long fingers wrap around his throat, crushing his screams before they could truly form. He choked, trying to drag air into his lungs, his body growing weak, his mind fading into blackness. He felt himself swept off his feet and cradled close against a strong chest.

 _Philippe_ , he thought distantly, as the world disappeared into darkness.

He woke to the soft motion of a boat, the sound of water lapping against wood, and gentle music filling the stale air.

 

 


End file.
